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Brian Thompson: No more pillow fights

There is absolutely nothing funny about this column. I am legally obligated to state this right up front. In fact, I’m legally obligated to believe it. I’m legally obligated to promote it, preach it, scream it from the hills.

I am also legally obligated to say that pillow fights are bad. That they can lead to serious injuries, and should never be performed with actual pillows. Air pillows — the imaginary kind — are the only kind that should be used in a pillow fight. I am legally obligated to say that if you do use real pillows, bad things can happen. Horrible things. Major injuries may ensue. Society might collapse. You will spend the rest of your days starting sentences with, “I am legally obligated to …”

And that’s no fun.

I brought it on myself. I have no defense. I’m pretty certain I have, for the second year running, won the Doofus Dad Award. Been crowned King of Calamity. I might just be the only man on the planet who can turn a pillow fight into a trip to the emergency room. That’s exactly where my 7-year-old daughter ended up a couple weeks ago with a mild concussion.

Are there are others out there who have done this, too? Support groups? Counseling sessions?

At this point, I am legally obligated to mention that I’m no longer allowed to have pillow fights anymore. Not unless both my daughter and I are wearing bike helmets … and we’re swinging air pillows. Even then there are conditions. That’s my wife’s decree. Understandably, she doesn’t want to go back the emergency room. Same goes for my daughter and me. So we’re onboard.

It started innocent enough. Pillows are, after all, made of feathers. So while you might swing them like mighty weapons, it’s hard to do any serious damage. My daughter and I have epic battles. EPIC! Huns and barbarians would have fled the room, cowering and calling for their mommies. Our pillow fights shook walls and left us utterly exhausted — near our breaking points. But we’ve never had a problem — not a serious one.

Not until that night when my daughter, standing on the bed, took an errant swing at me while I was bending over. She whiffed, and the momentum sent her little body hurtling through the air and off the bed. She landed on her back, her head colliding with the floor. Even with carpet I could hear the thud. It’s a sound I won’t forget. Nor the glossed over look in her eyes as she stared blankly at the ceiling. It was like she wasn’t there.

I’ve been scared in my life, but never like this. I’ve been guilty of under-reacting to situations, but not this time. I ran to her and felt behind her head. I panicked for a moment when I felt something along her skull that wasn’t right. It turned out to be a ponytail. Relief! But it took her a couple long, agonizing, stomach-churning moments before she came around. Before she could finally let out a cry. As a father, it was the most helpless I’ve felt. Paramedics checked her out. Sent her to the hospital because she was woozy and couldn’t remember what had happened. We waited with her until two in the morning. The Cat Scan results told us she was OK. That it was a mild concussion. That concussions are serious, and that another hit to the head could be bad.

Relief! We trudged out, exhausted, traumatized, thankful.

My wife has always warned me that our pillow fights would go bad. I thought she meant it would turn us to a life of crime. Not that someone would get hurt. Not that one of us would end up in a hospital. I always shrugged it off. That’s what men do. It’s a pillow, for goodness sake! There’s something hard-coded in our DNA to blow raspberries at common sense. To let things get too rough, or go too far. To miss that opportunity to dial it back, even slightly, before things go wrong.

But when she’s right, she’s right. So my daughter and I have sworn off pillow fights, at least for a while. The doctor has decreed it. My wife has made it legally-binding. We’re both on lockdown. I’m not even allowed to sleep on pillows.

I’m not fighting it. I learned my lesson. The memory of cradling her head in my hand while she stared straight through me — straight through me! — is too fresh in my mind. It was a haunting look, and it shook me up. I’m not legally obligated to say it, but for once, honey, I’m taking it seriously. Call me a changed dad. No longer the King of Calamity. Let someone else carry away the Doofus Dad award for once. I can’t promise how long it will last, but at least for the moment, I’m on board.